


Trees

by DestroyedConscience



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Creepy, Gen, Not entirely sure what to tag this with lol, i guess?? idk lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-12 03:36:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20557577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestroyedConscience/pseuds/DestroyedConscience
Summary: Nothing can make the trees stir. Virgil knows this. Has known this. Will know this.





	Trees

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my docs for literal months. Mainly just wrote it to test out a new writing style, see how I found writing in it, it was fun! I enjoyed it a lot to be honest. There's a good bit of symbolism in this, some obvious, others not as much lol. See if you can find it if you wanna! If not, that's fine, I hope you enjoy this anyways despite the short length uwu

The leaves crunched underfoot, a crackling that echoed. So loud that he was sure those still attached rustled in the branches of trees. So many trees.

Tall, winding things, branches poking out of bark like long, spindly limbs. Spiderlike. Lifelike. Closing in, oh, so slowly. No matter how far he walked they kept closing in. No matter how fast, how sneaky. They slept.

Virgil was getting cold. It wasn’t cold in the woods. The trees weren’t cold, no, they slept. Still. So still. He doesn’t know why they rustle when they are so still. But they do. Humming, like locusts . A low buzz.

They do not care for him, Virgil knows. They could not truly care for his presence. The humming is not for him. The rustling is for them and them alone. But they do not care if he hears, do not stop their buzz. He would not be able to decipher their speech, only guess. Even if he had lived for a millenia, he could only guess. They know this. He knows this.

He can feel the scratching of nails against bark, clawing behind his skin like it does theirs. He knows they want him to know this, feel this. Can tell by the way the itching fades when he recognises it, the buzzing resumes.

The river runs still, as though frozen in time. When Virgil crouches to look closer, blades of grass slither across his shoes. Infurl in his laces, as though there the whole time. The water is cold, it bites at his skin and kisses his palm. Lightly. Delicately. The river is glad he is here, it caresses and pinches. He cups his hand, lifts water out of place. It is pitch black. It returns to clear when it returns to its place. The blades of grass snap and uproot as he stands and walks.

His shoes make little noise as he continues. The rocks beneath are soft, they don’t cry out. The leaves are loud, they do not want him here. The trees hum and moan as he continues, leaves scream beneath him. He does not like the leaves, but it is not his place to say so. His place is not here.

The trees agree dismissively. They want to rest. If Virgil could see the sky, he was sure it would agree, too. The leaves answer in its place. They rustle loudly. It hurts Virgil’s ears.

There are no animals here. The trees do not need them. Virgil does not know how he got here. He can’t remember. The trees remember, but Virgil cannot understand. He has a feeling they do not want him to. Something scratches against his ribcage. Icy fingernails, trailing down, up.

The humming is slowing, the trees are tired of him. Virgil doesn’t understand what that means. The trees do. They always do. They crackle and shift, but are still. Virgil is still confused.

Buzzing is quieter, like snores, deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Even. Purposefully slow. They are sleeping, as they have wanted to for so long. Virgil feels guilt for keeping them awake. It feels like ice. Cold. Smooth. Jagged. Rough. Virgil isn’t good at identifying emotions. Not when they come from the trees.

The leaves do not want to wake the trees. They are quiet. Humming in low whispers. Baritone. Deep and quiet. Almost soothing. Almost. But Virgil does not like the leaves. They are loud. Virgil doesn’t like their volume. He is glad they are more quiet.

The path is gone. Soft rocks gone. The leaves are not as frequent. They do not like the grass. The grass does not like them, either. It is long.

Blades reach upwards, like stalagmites. They look sharp, pointed. The grass still in Virgil’s shoes sings. Virgil is cautious but continues. The trees are still here. They do not have anything to fear. They sleep. Virgil doesn’t want to wake them. The grass slides against his legs as he walks. Trying to get a grip. They’re too smooth, can’t get a hold. His legs move too fast for them. Still, they try. They curl, twisting, like snakes.

The blades part for him as he walks. Welcome him further. It’s too dark to see what lies ahead of him. He must trust the grass. It giggles with glee as he continues, leading him into the black. Black like the river. It’s cold. Biting. Freezing. So cold.

The trees do not wake.


End file.
